


The Game

by RecordRewind



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 15:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecordRewind/pseuds/RecordRewind
Summary: "That Mozart's music held power over him was something Salieri had come to admit, if not, never, to accept. But now he had to contend also with something else, something completely unexpected."Or: Salieri gets accidentally involved in a game with unforeseen consequences. As if his feelings about this guy from Salzburg weren't complicated enough already.





	1. The game

In the course of the years he spent in Wien as a musician at the service of Joseph II, Antonio Salieri had trained himself well in understanding, partaking into, even exploiting the court life. Being appreciated by the Holy Roman Emperor himself apparently wasn't enough to secure one's position and Salieri was careful to never miss the high society gatherings that could provide the chance to establish or maintain good relationships with the right people.

Tonight, such gathering was a masquerade, of all things, held in the gardens of the great villa of a well-known patron of the arts who had recently taken a special interest in opera.

The masquerade had begun in the late afternoon and would last late into the night. The gardens had been decorated with garlands, topiaries in the shapes of animals and monsters had been set, and lanterns too numerous to be counted had been lit up as the sunlight waned and died, to shed light over the long tables on which plates filled with delicious food were placed. The guests, among which many foreign visitors could be counted, had been entertained by a pastoral themed theater piece, and now an orchestra of six was playing.

Salieri listened to the music while he occupied himself with the required small talk. A pupil of him, a promising singer, called his attention to some gossip, and he listened politely, then he seized the chance to exchange a few words with the host, who asked the court composer what was his opinion about Haydn's latest symphony. Now it was quite dark, and the flickering light of the lanterns gave a fantastic quality to the many elaborate masks surrounding him. Never known as a festive kind of person, Salieri had chosen to wear a rather simple black silk mask, barely covering his eyes and nose.

The guests were divided in smaller congregations, some listening to the music, some feasting on the food and drinks, some playing games. Momentarily free of conversation, Salieri fetched another glass of wine, and strolled around. His attention was caught by the cries and cheers coming from a group a bit further away from the tables. He moved closer, to see what the commotion was about. Glancing over the heads of the few people in front of him he saw a lady with a blindfold over her eyes throwing her arms around a gentleman who wore a mask over which flowers and feathers were painted.

“Caught you!” the lady cried out, in a delighted voice. She ran her fingers over the man's face, pushing up the mask to reveal a wide grin, and she pressed her lips on the man's mouth. The crowd cheered loudly. She pulled away the blindfold, as the man did the same with his mask, laughing, revealing himself as...

Salieri felt his mood sink. Mozart. Of course.

The young composer from Salzburg had been mentioned in almost every conversation Salieri had during the evening. He had been careful in voicing his judgment of the man, whenever he was asked, recognizing that he was clearly gifted, and bold as the young often are. Of course, he had remarked, only time will tell if his work had any lasting worth... and truth to be told, the Emperor hadn't been the most enthusiast of his latest pieces... there were even voices of a yawn... Still, most people were clearly quite curious about this Mozart, and held expectations about his next opera.

And now here he was. Salieri hadn't seen him talking with anybody of worth during the whole evening. Clearly he had been busy entertaining himself with such vulgar games. Now he let the lady put the blindfold on his eyes for his turn at being it in the game (not before placing a kiss that was quite too lingering, on her hand). Salieri downed his wine. He could not explain why Mozart's attitude annoyed him so much. For one thing, he was sure that wasn't the countenance of a serious man. Someone who could create such music as he did should have behave in a more dignified way... not to mention that he was a married man...

Just as he was thinking that Salieri noticed Mozart's wife, Constanze Weber, sitting on a bench. She was talking to another dame, their faces quite close, and she was holding this other lady's hand. They interrupted their conversation to join the cheers as a man dressed up as some kind of jester made Mozart spin around and then pushed him towards the other players, then they went back to their conversation, faces even closer.

Salieri sighed. Man and wife were quite well sorted, it appeared...

Mozart made a show of almost catching another lady, only to stumble and miss her at the last moment. Salieri shook his head. Such a buffoon... He turned his back to the game, deciding it was late enough he could be excused and leave the party... then someone bumped into his back, hard enough to make him drop his empty glass, and grabbed his arm. Salieri turned around, fuming, and found himself face to face with the blindfolded Mozart.

He froze.

“Oh my, looks like I caught you...” Mozart ran his hands up Salieri's arms and shoulders, feeling his waistcoat. “...sir.”

He was smiling. The flames of the lanterns cast long shadows that clung to the ruffled up hair on his forehead, to his nose and lips. His fingers brushed Salieri's jawline.

Salieri wanted to push him away, he wanted to address the young composer sternly. But his voice remained caged into his throat, and he could not say anything, could not even move a muscle, as Mozart closed the distance and kissed him.

It lasted barely more than a breath, then Mozart pulled back, laughing, amidst yet again the cheers of the crowd. Because there was a crowd around them, and Salieri felt his cheeks burn in shame, found it hard to breathe.

Mozart started to pull away the ribbon covering his own eyes, and Salieri felt sudden panic rise. No, he couldn't see him, he couldn't...

A loud bang resonated over their heads, followed by a bright flash.

“Fireworks!” someone shouted in excitement.

Mozart looked straight up at the colors in the sky, and Salieri all but flew away, pushing himself between the people behind him, then pacing quickly towards the stone stairway leading out of the garden and into the villa. He made it for the exit, remembering too late that he hadn't even properly excused himself with the host. He didn't care.

He touched the soft fabric of his mask, which now felt like a ridiculous small thing. Had Mozart recognized him? Had anybody else in that group of people? It was dark, and many of the young ladies and gentlemen who were playing spoke French, he had noticed. They had to be among the guests from outside the city and he didn't think he had spoken to any of them during the evening, so maybe he was safe... of course he couldn't be certain...

His mind a blur, he sought refuge into his carriage, and as he rode home a different storm of thoughts took over his mind.

He had returned the kiss.

Just barely, his lips had parted and he had leaned into the touch... and Mozart had felt it, of that he was sure. Why had he done it? He must have acted out of surprise, or instinct... For those few seconds, his body had decided the course of action on its own, giving in some kind of... desire? Need? And with that man, of all people!

It was absurd. Angrily, Salieri wiped his mouth, and then he pressed his hand over his lips, as if to grasp the sensation he had just tried to erase.

Damn that Mozart!

 

-

 

Salieri had his mind set on forgetting at best, or ignoring at worst, what had transpired the previous night. Being involved in such a libertine game had been an unfortunate but ultimately silly accident, and really he shouldn't let it affect him too much. As to the way he had reacted, he was sure that shock, and possibly a little of the wine he had drunk before were to blame. No matter he really hadn't felt drowsy at all.

At least partially reassured, he went on with his business as usual, with the lessons and with his composing, and for a few days he thought he had put the accident behind. When word came his presence was requested at the rehearsal of a short opera Mozart was expected to finish for the visit of some guests of the Emperor, he only thought he would have to keep his reaction to the music in check.

He didn't quite anticipate how, as soon as he saw Mozart in the theater, the man quickly greeting them before turning his attention back to the musicians, his eyes immediately went to the composer's lips, his memory to how soft they felt against his own.

That couldn't be good.

As the rehearsal went on Salieri paid minimum attention to Rosenberg's nasty remarks about everything from the changes in tempo to the number of people on the stage. The piece was hardly as elaborate as some other music Mozart had composed, the libretto a frivolous comedy, and yet, of course, it was perfect.

That Mozart's music held power over him was something Salieri had come to admit, if not, never, to accept. But now he had to contend also with something else, something completely unexpected. In the state of heightened sensation the music brought him to, even the memory of that night felt more alive. He could remember the strong hold on his arm, the gentle touch of those fingers... the same fingers that had held the pen that traced those sublime notes... the warmth on his lips... all these sensations were stronger now in memory than in the moment they were present.

Salieri clenched his hands behind his back, digging nails into the skin hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bring back some clarity.

Was he going insane? Was this some kind of punishment? And for what...?

The piece ended, to a “Bravo!” from Joseph II. Mozart grinned to the musicians and to the singers, then he turned to bow to his small but important public, beaming.

“He's coming up in the Emperor's grace again,” groaned Rosenberg. Salieri mumbled something in agreement. He had no energy for scheming right now.

“This representation will be such an entertaining affair!” said Joseph II. “Ah, Maestro Salieri.” he called. Salieri walked closer, preparing to express moderate praise about the piece. “I hear you are working on an opera too, an Italian one, these days, is it correct?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“I want both yours and Herr Mozart's operas to be staged for my guests. Mozart's singspiel in German and your opera in Italian. It will be a real competition. My guests will decide which one his better.” The Emperor looked around at his advisors, seemingly quite proud of the idea.

Salieri stared for a second too much, stunned, before catching himself. He bowed.

“What a wonderful, wonderful idea, your grace!” Rosenberg exclaimed. It was clear from his expression he hoped that could be the occasion to show Mozart up. Mozart, for his part, just agreed merrily. He didn't even look at Salieri. The Emperor left the theater with his following, and Mozart signaled a pause to the musicians and the singers, then he went to speak with the librettist.

The theater emptied up. Salieri stood in front of the stage. A competition. Ridiculous. And they were to be judged by people who probably had little or no taste in music whatsoever. Who didn't understand.

He glanced at the score, forgotten on the music stand.

Who else does really understand _this_ but me, he wondered, and the question was painful.

“Maestro Salieri.”

The voice almost made him jump. He turned around, to see Mozart coming close. “May I speak to you for a moment?” His nonchalant demeanor was no different than the usual.

“Yes, of course.” Something about this show they now had to stage, Salieri presumed. He followed Mozart out of the main hall, and in the corridor leading to the dressing rooms.

As soon as they were alone, Mozart stopped and turned to gaze at him, arms crossed, a grin on his face. “You left us before we finished.”

“What do you mean?”

The younger composer took a few steps towards Salieri, who felt a sudden unease, as if his ways of escape were being closed one after the other.

“You left our game before we finished, the other night.”

 _I wasn't even supposed to join it in the first place_ , said a voice in Salieri's mind, sounding reasonably annoyed. He should have said that aloud. Instead he swallowed, his throat feeling dry as parchment, and he asked “How did you know it was me?”

Mozart shrugged. “Constanze recognized you and she told me. I was disappointed I didn't get to unmask you. I got distracted.” Mozart moved a step closer, then yet another one. Salieri forced himself not to back away.

What was happening? What could Mozart want out of confronting him like that? Did he want to mock him? He should have felt offended, even angry... instead he felt awake, his senses alert, ready for something to happen.

Mozart placed his right hand on the front of Salieri's shirt, right under his tie. His fingertips were stained with ink, Salieri noticed. He couldn't push that hand away, as might he may try.

“There is a rule, in that game,” Mozart looked down at his fingers on Salieri's chest as he spoke. “If someone catches you, and then you manage to catch and kiss that same person in turn, they have to pay penance and obey one wish of yours. Anything you ask, as long as it is possible for them to do it.”

He wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were serious, they held a focus that Salieri had only seen in the other man when he was playing or directing. And it _did_ feel as if the music was washing over Salieri, yet the only sound he could hear now was their breathing barely out of time.

Slowly, without moving his right hand away, Mozart lifted his left hand and placed it over the other man's eyes. Salieri's eyelids fluttered against it, like the wings of the tiniest bird. His breath was tied in a knot somewhere deep into his chest.

Mozart leaned up so that as he spoke his breath caressed Salieri's lips.

“Will you catch me, Salieri?”

He waited, his lips close enough Salieri could feel their warmth, close enough a shiver would be all it took to close the distance between them.

It was too much.

Salieri pushed him away, hard.

Their gaze locked for a second, and he glimpsed surprise, and something else, concern, hurt, in the younger composer's eyes, then Salieri was fleeing again, out of the corridor, of the theater and into the street.

He ran away, chased by the look in Mozart's eyes, by the ghost of his touch on the skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I write for this fandom (I hope it's not too bad!). I just had to mention the "Prima la musica poi le parole" VS "Der Schauspieldirektor" staging.  
> This started as a one-shot, but I'm thinking I should probably continue it and see if things get easier for these two... or maybe more difficult... who knows...
> 
> Edit: this is officially continuing for at least a couple more chapters!
> 
> Comments very much appreciated!


	2. An invitation

 

The letter arrived five days later.

During those five days, Salieri had buried himself into his work. The day of the rehearsal he had fled from the theater like a man running away from hell itself. Arriving home, he had found Giovanni Casti, the poet who was working on the opera with him, waiting. Apparently, Rosenberg hadn't even waited to leave the theater to send Casti word that the short _divertimento_ he and Salieri were composing was now involved in, as Rosenberg had so succinctly put it, “restoring the very honor of the Italian opera in the face of such barbarian adversities”, and the poor librettist had immediately come to the composer's house in order to discuss any changes that might be required to the text. He was so anxious that Salieri's own agitation had gone mostly unnoticed, thankfully.

So, Salieri had started to work, without even taking off his coat at first. In the following days he revised the music he already wrote, over and over. He stopped only to eat, and to give his music lessons. Those, he wouldn't allow to be disrupted. His students mattered a great deal to him, and teaching forced him to be focused, to put aside everything else.

After each lesson he went to work again, composing late into the night, until he had no choice but to surrender to sleep. Each night, his dreams were feverish, but mercilessly they were too confused to add much to the turmoil his soul was already into. He was sure, _sure_ , that Mozart had only meant to embarrass him, but that did nothing to quiet the knowledge that he had stood there to be mocked, that he had... waited... hoped for...

He pressed the pen hard enough to tear the paper, leaving a scratch in the place where he was supposed to write music worth of an Emperor. He tossed the whole sheet away, and started over. Again and again.

Then, on the morning of the fifth day, the letter arrived. The valet brought it to him as he was finishing his breakfast. Seeing his name written in a neat hand he recognized very well gave Salieri pause. He looked at the thick envelope for long moments, before standing up from the table and picking it up.

He closed the door of his studio beside his back, then he used a knife to cut the envelope open. It was a music score. A _Scherzo_ , bearing dedication to him on the first page. There seemed to be no other written note to give further explanation for the gift.

Salieri sat down, gripping the sheets a little too hard. He took a long breath, then he let his eyes scan the page, looking at the notes with the same attention one would use when sipping the finest wine. Careful not to gorge on it.

It was an unusual composition for the piano. The higher and lower notes chased each other, the lower accompaniment setting a steady tune and the higher disrupting it. Salieri followed the notes with his fingers (thought of ink stains on the fingertips of another hand).

He wondered about making a copy of the whole thing, measure after measure, chrome after chrome.

Could he have made it his own, at least a little, if he did it? Could he somehow be imbued with but a drop of that genius?

He shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips. Nonsense. Of course he couldn't. No more than a mirror could retain the warmth and the light of the flame that shone on its surface, after someone had blown it off. The flame that so easily could burn...

He placed the score down on his desk, and as he did something slipped out of it. He picked it up, puzzled. It was an invitation to attend one of Mozart's concert by subscription. He had heard of them of course, they were quite the novelty in Wien those days.

The date of the concert was that very evening. On the bottom of the invitation, a few words.

_I promise not to involve you in more silly games. Cross my heart. W.A.M._

Salieri almost snorted. Such nerve!

It would have been better to not accept the invitation. To write a note back, thanking Mozart for the gift, and to forget everything else. His mind set, Salieri glanced at the clock. His first student for the day was to arrive in a few minutes.

He forbid himself to think about that evening's event, and did a pretty good job of it until the fated hour approached. His eyes were drawn more and more often to the clock hands, and he found himself more and more on the edge.

Maybe the concert could be the occasion to really put an end to all that absurdity. Knowing Mozart, Salieri couldn't be sure he wouldn't have remarked upon the events the next time they met, maybe even in the presence of the Emperor. Just picturing Rosenberg's face as he heard that Mozart had kissed Salieri... If he went to the concert, he could tell Mozart that he considered the whole affair behind them, and that he didn't wish for it to be brought up again. Be done with it for real.

And, Salieri couldn't avoid to think, albeit with an acute feeling of guilt at his own weakness, it was the occasion to hear new music, music that Mozart was unlikely to play again. Those concert were often a one time event, the scores weren't even to be printed and sold, as far as he knew.

He heard the bells of a church toll six times, the clock in his studio following suit a few seconds later.

He called for his carriage to be prepared.

 

-

 

The concert was hold in a restaurant, of all places! Baffled, Salieri entered the hall that had been prepared with rings of chairs around a wooden podium over which a fortepiano was placed. He picked a seat to the side, where he could hear well but where he hoped to be less noticeable. He knew word about his attending the concert would spread anyway, but he was hoping above all to avoid being dragged in conversation with acquaintances.

The audience was comprised of people of various social extractions, from aristocrats to theater people. They drank and spoke loudly. When Mozart appeared, wearing a brightly colored waistcoat that set him apart from most. he took his time chatting and joking around, before finally sitting at the pianoforte. The room went quiet. He glanced at his audience to crack another joke about the owner of the restaurant cutting the expenses for the lights, making everybody laugh again. He looked around the room, smiling, and he saw Salieri.

His smile grew even brighter, and Salieri had to look away, overcome by a sudden embarrassment.

Then Mozart started playing.

 

-

 

The concert lasted two whole hours, with a few short pauses, and then the people lingered on to talk to the composer. Salieri waited for his chance to speak to Mozart, carefully preparing his words. But when the occasion arrived he didn't even managed to open his mouth, because Mozart, as soon as he saw him approaching, ran towards him and grabbed his hand.

“I'm so glad you came! What did you think of the symphony?”

“...you were quite successful, the audience clearly appreciated it.”

“They loved it.” Mozart let go of his hand, much to Salieri's relief, and backed a little, smiling somewhat sheepishly. “I'm interested in your opinion though. Also about the piece I sent you.”

“I appreciated the gift.”

“Would you like me to play it for you?”

“I--” Salieri stared at him. “What?”

Mozart looked around. “Here it is too loud. Come at my house, I would be very happy to play the music for you.”

“...It is already quite late, I wouldn't impose myself on you...”

“You aren't imposing on anyone, I am inviting you. Constanze won't mind if we play, even if it's late.” Mozart's eyes and smile looked sincere. As if having Salieri as a guest at his home was the thing that would make him the happiest person in the world right now.

“I...” Salieri scrambled for words, trying to think of an excuse, anything. He usually wasn't that clueless, damn it. Why was Mozart able to leave him such at loss, always?! He didn't want to enter Mozart's home, it wouldn't have felt... right.

“Why don't you come at my house instead?” he finished, hearing the words coming out of his mouth as if it was someone else speaking. “I live alone, we wouldn't bother anybody.”

It was Mozart's turn to stare at him questioningly, and for a moment Salieri hoped he was going to refuse. He had no idea of how he looked, if too eager to hear Mozart say no, or...

“That's fine by me, but I will have to hitch a ride on your carriage, if you don't mind.”

 

-

 

Salieri watched Mozart entering his studio for the first time, and asked himself again how he could have let this happen. The younger composer looked at everything with curiosity, while Salieri busied himself lighting up more candles. Mozart's gaze fixed on the fortepiano. He played a couple of accords.

“Would you like something to drink?” Salieri asked.

“No, thank you.” Mozart gave a look at the score left on the fortepiano. It was covered with annotations.

“Do you teach here?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you give your music lessons for free.”

“I have an education only thanks to the kindness of my teacher, who tutored me even though my family couldn't afford it. I think it's only fair if I do the same.”

“That's very generous, and quite noble!” Mozart said, with admiration.

“It's not. I have no financial concerns that could make it a trouble, my wage as chapel master is more than enough to cover payment for my pupils too. And... I like teaching. It's not a sacrifice.”

“Even when you don't need money, giving up to more of it can be hard. My sister teaches too, and I know she would like to give free lessons as charity, but my father won't hear of it.”

“I'm sure your father has his reasons.”

“Of course!” Mozart added quickly. “He worries a lot, about our family's well-being. About all sort of things.” He had become somber, all of a sudden, and Salieri found himself looking for something to say to change the mood.

“Your sister was a very good pianist I hear? You used to tour Europe together...”

“She _is_ a great musician!” Mozart brightened up again. “She has always been my model. She is going to come here for visit, right when there will be that silly competition the Emperor has decided to drag us into, so it will be better if I create something really good for it.”

Mozart seemed more anxious about his sister's opinion than about the one of the Emperor and of all his entourage. Salieri found it a bit childish, but also weirdly touching.

“I mean, I know it will be good, of course. But I want it to be good in a way that will surprise her,” Mozart added, back to his usual brash arrogance, and Salieri had to suppress an exasperated groan. Clearly, humility wasn't part of his vocabulary...

“Anyway,” Mozart moved his attention to the violins placed over a chest, on a velvet cloth. “May I borrow one?”

“A violin?”

Mozart grinned. “You already read the music as I wrote it, for the fortepiano, so it would be boring for me to play it like that. I've been thinking about a variation of the _Scherzo for Salieri_ for the violin. I will play that.”

“...you've been just thinking about it?”

“I guess I will improvise a lot.”

Not really knowing how to comment on that, Salieri picked a violin and handed it to him. He looked at Mozart's hands as he plucked the strings, tuning it a bit. He was starting to feel agitation stir deep into his core, again.

Mozart glanced at him “Thank you, for accepting the gift and for inviting me here,” he said, earnestly. “I know we had disagreements, mostly because the music this court insist to appreciate is too antiquate--” he caught himself before going on a rant, and giggled apologetically at Salieri's raised eyebrow. “Anyway. I would be happy to be called your friend. I wanted you to know that I meant no harm with my teasing.”

Salieri nodded. He had already reached the conclusion that what had happened in the theater had been nothing else than that, and yet Mozart saying it aloud made him feel less relieved than he should have.

Finally satisfied with the tuning, Mozart bowed deep, doing a flourish with his hand. Glancing up, he flashed Salieri a cocky grin.

“Make yourself comfortable, Salieri, and enjoy this precious show. It's not every day, and not for every kind of audience, that the great Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart gives a private performance.”

This time Salieri couldn't hold back a scoff. “ _Herr_ Mozart, humility is a quality fitting to any composer, no matter his ability.”

“I'm not any composer, you might have noticed.”

“Yes, of that I am aware.”

Salieri sat down, and it finally occurred to him, the real reason of his agitation.

As he played the violin, Mozart was going to stand right in front of him. He was going to look at him. To see him listening to the music.

Salieri swallowed. He had to be careful not to betray any emotion.

Mozart placed the bow on the strings, ready to play.

“Please enjoy yourself, Maestro Salieri.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what do you think, will Salieri enjoy this impromptu private concert?
> 
> So this has become multi-chapter, I am adding tags as I go on (if you think I'm missing some obvious ones please tell me).  
> Thank you very much for reading! Comments are always appreciated, thank you to those who commented on the first chapter, I hope you like this one too! :)


	3. Simple

Mozart improvised, with the same confidence as if he had rehearsed the piece a thousand times over and again, no hesitation in his movements, no wavering, no fear.

There was the child prodigy there of course. The little cherub who had been paraded in front of Europe's greatest, to amaze and astound with the gift God granted so generously upon him. And there was the mature composer who took that gift and mastered it, who learnt and practiced for years, for decades, who worked so very hard.

And there was a man who, at the bottom of it all, simply loved what he was doing, what he was creating, what he could give. A man who loved.

It was beautiful, because it showed the way, it showed all the ways music hadn't been set free before. And its beauty was terrible, because it felt like no one else could ever reach such height again.

But even as it soared higher than anyone had ever dared to dream of before, it challenged others to try.

 

-

 

It was quiet now. The music had stopped, but Salieri still kept his eyes closed. He heard Mozart breathing, he heard the soft sound the violin made when it was placed down.

He didn't hear Mozart coming closer.

“Salieri...”

His voice was kind. Almost cautious.

Salieri opened his eyes. He blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them off. He felt exposed, like a wound. His hands were clenched into fists over his thighs, he didn't dare move a muscle, for fear that even the smallest movement would have sent him crumbling down to pieces.

Mozart was kneeling in front of him, looking up into his eyes, again with concern, confusion, even... exasperation? That almost made Salieri roll his eyes, despite everything.

Mozart took a long breath.

“What do you want from me?” He asked. “I need you to tell me. Most of times, I know when people want something from me. I know when people are envious, when they want my talent or when they don't care for it. I know when they want _me_. But you, I don't _get_ you.”

“Why do you even care so much about what I want? Why the invitation, why _this_?”

“Because I am trying to understand! I thought you hated me... then, after the masquerade, I thought it was something else completely. I thought it could be simple, after all.”

 _Simple?_ The word seemed absurd to Salieri. As if anything that had transpired since the masquerade... since the day Mozart moved to Wien, really, could be called _simple_.

“But I misunderstood, and then I feared that you wouldn't have anything to do with me anymore, after that. I sent you the score, and the invitation, as an apology too, for my boldness.”

“You meant to apologize for such a crude joke.”

Mozart stared at him.

“The kiss that evening, it was just a game, yes. But what happened later, I never meant it as a joke. I...”

He paused, and bit his lip. When he spoke again, he avoided Salieri's eyes.

“When I believed you wanted me it made me feel happy. Happier than I could have thought possible. That's why I came to you in the theater, because I wanted you, too.”

The words hit Salieri like a slap.

“I...” He swallowed. He felt light-headed, as if he had been under the water too long and was only now coming up to breathe. “I don't know what I want.” he admitted finally. “You saw me, you see what your music... what _you_ do to me. I don't comprehend myself anymore, I haven't since the first time I listened to it...”

But he was lying through his teeth, because he knew it all too well now. The notes, the _tempo_... might have meant both pain and ecstasy to his soul, but it was the movement of the hand creating them, it was those dark eyes, it was the devil and the angel coming together in the curve of that smile, that had taken hold of his heart and of his mind and weren't letting them go. Fascination had become desire, and the kiss, that fateful kiss, had simply brought it forward, made it so that he couldn't ignore it anymore.

A desire that not only was understood, but also, somehow, reciprocated.

And yet...

Salieri looked up to the ceiling. “I know how I must look,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “You have illuminated my own mediocrity, and I hated that, so I thought I hated you. I was angry, I was jealous, I _am_ jealous... and it must look so ugly...”

“No!” Mozart interrupted him. He reached to place his hands over Salieri's. He stared into his eyes as he spoke with urgency.

“Salieri, when you were listening to me, just minutes ago, you were smiling.”

Salieri looked back as if he couldn't make sense of his words.

“When you listen to my music, you look blissful. I mean it.” Mozart laughed a little. “You make me happy just to play for you, you know? So I can't believe that it only makes you feel bad. There's tragedy and sadness in my music, I know it, but there's joy, there's exaltation as well, even more so. You feel them both. Tell me, am I wrong?”

Salieri felt too lost to reply. Whatever he had believed about himself and Mozart, in the span of less of an evening had been completely turned upside down. He knew he needed time, and peace, to sort all this out, but then he looked down at Mozart's hands on his own, felt their weight and warmth, and suddenly he felt his cheeks burn.

This fever too was part of the spell Mozart had put on him.

Mozart seemed to understand, and he pulled back, letting Salieri's hands go. He sat back on his heels. Salieri lied back against the chair, finally allowing himself to breathe a little.

“So I didn't misunderstand completely, did I?” Mozart pressed him, teasingly. “You have feelings for me.” He sounded pleased by that, which only made Salieri feel embarrassed.

“I... What I said earlier it's true. I am not sure of what I want. But... Damn.” Salieri brought his hand up to cover his mouth, in an exasperated gesture. “I feel like such a fool.”

“You _are_ a bit confused,” Mozart said, and giggled a little. There was no derision in his voice, though.

Salieri sighed. “Well, yes, it has been a confusing evening. Week. Months. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like...” _With such fondness. Affection. Because I still don't know what to make of it_ “...that!”

“All right, maestro.” Mozart's smile took on a mischievous edge. “Answer me just this.” He leaned forward, a little. “Do you want me to stay here tonight?”

There was no mistake about what the question implied. And the sudden warmth Salieri felt pooling into his stomach was a clearer answer than his tongue could spell.

Mozart's looked at him for long seconds, then he stood up, and under Salieri's mesmerized gaze he slowly, very slowly, started unbuttoning his vest. He pulled away the ribbon around the silken shirt's collar, let it fall to the floor, then he went for the buttons of the shirt. After the first few he glanced at Salieri, an eyebrow raised.

“Please, maestro Salieri, if the answer is no I'd rather not find out when I'll be already completely naked. It's quite cold, outside.”

“Stay. I beg you.” Salieri breathed out, and felt his heart fill up seeing Mozart's smile. Mozart offered him his hand, and Salieri took it and without thinking he knelt down as he brought it to his lips, to place a kiss on it.

Mozart caressed his cheek, then he ran his fingers through black hair, messing them up. Salieri leaned into the touch, he imagined doing the same gesture on the younger composer's already unruly locks. He imagined kissing his hair, his brow, imagined those fingers on his skin.

A shiver of arousal ran through his whole body.

He felt drunk, and yet there was lucidity in his actions. So that was how he could finally reach some peace? By surrendering, by allowing himself to be consumed completely in those flames, in this man.

What was the word Mozart had used earlier? _Simple_... it had seemed ridiculous at first. Yet, yielding to this touch, to this desire... could be so very simple...

Someone knocked on the door.

The interruption was so unexpected that for a few moments neither Salieri nor Mozart knew what to do. Then the knocking resumed, with urgency.

“Master Salieri? My deepest apologies, but it is a matter of great importance,” the voice of Salieri's butler came from behind the door.

“A moment,” Salieri called, standing up. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to get back his composure while Mozart looked at him, caught between annoyance and amusement at the terrible timing. Salieri straightened up his back, smoothed his vest, and saw Mozart grinning. “What's so funny?” He asked, and Mozart shook his head.

Salieri coughed, then he went to the door and opened it, though not completely.

“What is the matter?” He asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

The old butler looked quite agitated. “Master Salieri, I am very sorry, but there's a guest for you.”

“At this late hour and uninvited?! Who would that be?”

“This... gentleman claims Count Rosenberg sent him.”

...of all the things to happen that night! Salieri wondered what the hell Rosenberg might have been up to now. He debated if he should just have his butler tell the unwelcome guest to come back the next day. But this was unprecedented, it _had_ to be about something truly urgent. It was better to see what it was all about and be done with it.

“Show him inside, I'll meet him in the parlor.”

“No need for such ceremonies,” an unknown voice interjected. Salieri watched, almost fuming, as a man clad in black walked down the corridor and towards him. He gestured the apologetic butler to leave them, and stepped in the corridor, pushing the door to the studio almost closed behind his back.

“Who are you and what business do you have into this house?” he asked, not bothering to conceal his irritation at such invasion.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the man said, not sounding apologetic in the least. He was very tall, and wore a wide brimmed hat that he didn't bother to take off inside the house, using it instead to keep his face partially obscured by shadow. “And for using Rosenberg's name to gain your attention more swiftly. I was not sent by him directly. My employers wish to remain anonymous, because of their status, but they want you to know they hold your work in the highest esteem. They appreciate your efforts in preserving this city's noble musical tradition, and they wish to be of help.”

He reached under his cloak and produced a leather bag that he offered Salieri.

Salieri took the bag and unfastened it, pulling out a stack of sheets covered with fine ink.

It took but a glance to understand what that was. Salieri felt his throat dry up.

“What is the meaning of this?” He asked, knowing it already.

“I was sent to watch that composer's house, to wait for the right chance. Tonight he is away and it doesn't seem likely he'll be back before dawn. You have all the time to read these, or copy them, whatever suits you. Then I will put them back in place. I will be back in a few hours.” The man waited for Salieri's reply, and receiving no one he just bowed slightly. “I'll have your butler show me the door.” He turned his back and walked down the corridor.

Salieri watched him disappear behind the door, then he looked down at the score into his hand. He turned around and entered the studio again, to find Mozart waiting for him, staring down at the floor.

“All about that ridiculous contest, uh?” he said, his voice dull.

“I had no idea such a plot was afoot,” Salieri fretted over his words. “Please, believe me, this is not something I--”

“He entered into my house. While Constanze was asleep there, he entered into our house and into my studio, to steal my work...” Mozart looked up at him, eyes lucid with rage. “...you know, if you had _asked_ I would have shown it to you.”

“I'm sorry. I swear, I have nothing to do with this and I _will_ fix this--”

“How?!” Mozart gestured angrily at the score, at Salieri. “These are all games! Stupid games of power you and those in the court love to play, this has nothing to do with music! You all just want to show me back into what you think is my place! And you won't stop even before such vile means.”

“Don't put me together with them, whoever they are, I told you I had no idea...”

“Save your breath, maestro Salieri.” The spite with which the title was almost spat made Salieri wince. “I don't care.”

Mozart walked to the door.

“Wait...” Salieri reached to grab his arm, to hold him back, but Mozart's furious look made him stop cold.

“Just tell your goon to put the score exactly where he found it.” Mozart said, and he left the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I apologize...?
> 
> I guess Salieri will now have to work hard to fix this...
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments, criticism, and shouting at the author are all very much appreciated!


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